


It’s Not A So Black And White World

by nikuy



Category: British Actor RPF, Football RPF
Genre: Crossover, I'm using Bing Translate for the German okay, M/M, a little Anna-Maria bashing, unusual pairing, why did I write this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-03
Updated: 2012-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-09 03:02:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikuy/pseuds/nikuy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Hipster</i>, Michael inwardly noted with a smile. He wouldn’t be surprised if the kid got himself a pair of Dr. Dre’s Beats in his bag. He couldn’t be a day older than 20, he looked so young it made his mouth water a bit. Young, innocent boys were always appealing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It’s Not A So Black And White World

**Author's Note:**

> I found this in my harddisk and yelped. It was written due to an old imagination when I realized that Mesut looks a little bit like James McAvoy and I'm a McFassy heavy shipper, so...this happened. Posted this on my Tumblr once, but I edited it again (not that it makes a huge difference, I need a proofreader srsly). Anyway, this is outrageous and unearthly, I understand, but please do not kill me?

There. He spotted him from across the street, looking fresh and perfect, just the way he liked it. The boy was tall—really tall, maybe as tall as him, but he looked thin and lithe. His hair looked soft as it fell just above his eyes, contrasting with the fair complexion of his skin that was nearing pale and the scowl he got on his forehead actually made him look even cuter. He narrowed his huge, dark eyes as he spoke into his Blackberry that he held with his right hand to his left ear; what an awkward position, he thought. From the pout those thin pink lips were forming, the boy seemed annoyed at whomever on the other line. Well, he might be able to fix that.

 

Putting his shades back on, Michael crossed the street carefully, still eyeing the boy discreetly as he was getting closer and closer. He heard the boy’s voice speaking in a fast familiar foreign language lowly, but his intonation was sharp. _Turkish_ , he thought, the only language he knew that sounds like German but isn’t German at all. He moved to the nearest lamppost to light up a cigarette, silently watching the boy walking in circle as he argued with someone on his phone.

 

Deeply Michael took a drag and exhaled the smoke; his fingertips were tingly as the nicotine spread through his vein like fire to oil. His grayish green eyes were drawn to the bloke’s feature once again; he got a perfect nose. Might be one of the best he had ever seen, with thin bridge and nostrils, but so finely shaped. The rest of his feature was soft, his huge dark eyes only made him look like a lost deer with long eyelashes and pink thin lips, and his mouth was so small. Imperfect, it might sounds like, but the features pulled up a pretty figure on such a young man.

 

He was unlike any other boys Michael had ever paid attention to. He didn’t look like an A-lister with a pair of black titanium earrings, a branded leather jacket, thin black v-neck shirt with words printed in unintelligible font, baggy jeans (torn by the knees), and a pair of the latest Nike collection. _Hipster_ , Michael inwardly noted with a smile. He wouldn’t be surprised if the kid got himself a pair of Dr. Dre’s Beats in his bag. He couldn’t be a day older than 20, he looked so young it made his mouth water a bit. Young, innocent boys were always appealing.

 

With the last snapping tone, the boy hanged up and stuffed his phone into his pocket. He huffed angrily at no one and fidgeted uncomfortably from one heel to heel. It was time.

 

“They just don’t understand, do they?” Michael spoke, in the first time for the last few years, in his mother language.

 

The boy glanced at him once, twice, “ _Entschuldigung_?”

 

“Sorry,” the actor chuckled, “I just heard your conversation. Not that I understand, but it sounds pretty tough.” The Turk flushed a little, but it already was so obvious for Michael that the boy wasn’t used to talk to strangers. There was a sudden urge deep inside him to just stuff a chloroform-soaked handkerchief over the bloke’s mouth and kidnap him right away, but of course, he had to prepare that beforehand to do so.

 

“It’s…nothing.” Said the dark-haired boy awkwardly as he turned his eyes back to the empty road though he didn’t seem to want to cross the road.

 

“Care for a cup of tea or two?”

 

The boy turned his eyes again, looked confused. “Did you just offer to buy me a drink?”

 

“’Just a drink’ is not actually what I have in mind,” Michael grinned, “Or do you want to skip the drink?”

 

Now the boy made another scowl directed at him, looking skeptical but it was obvious that he was considering the offer nonetheless. The ginger-haired man could see that he was observing him, as if trying to find out whether he was harmless or not, but then he looked at his face and turned his body. “I’ll take _only_ the drink.”

 

Michael couldn’t help but to laugh, “We’ll see about that.”

 

*

 

He said his name was Mesut. It wasn’t ‘May-soot’, it was simply ‘Mesut’. Michael was glad he was pretty aware of Mesut’s origin; he knew some Turkish descendants wouldn’t drink alcohol and would avoid eating pork though sometimes it was inevitable in German. Mesut was like that and he was skeptical, but not being impolite at all. He wasn’t chatty, but did answer when Michael asked him questions.

 

He turned out to be 21 this year, outrageously younger than himself, but his conducts were rather mature and calm. He grew fond to this café Michael brought him to; he could see that in his eyes. He brought him there on purpose, of course. It was the best place he found in Berlin where no paparazzi or a fan would suddenly appear because it was so well-concealed in an old building. The workers were also holding a high respect of their customers’ privacy; it was more than the ginger could ever ask.

 

“So you were born in Gelsenkirchen?” the ginger head took an interest at the sight of Mesut sipping his Darjeeling in such manner, he seemed to be awkward in almost everything he did. “That’s a beautiful city.”

 

“ _Nat_ _ürlich_.” For the first time Mesut finally gave him something that was close enough to a smile, “The neighborhood I grew up in was very nice. Are you from Berlin?”

 

“No, I was born in Heidelberg, but we moved to Killarney in Southern Ireland when I was 2.” He said as he smiled at a waiter who came with his quiche and Mesut’s apple pie ( _hmm…_ ).

 

“Ireland? _Warum_?” The ginger shot the younger one a look that made him blush, “I…don’t mean to sound nosy-“

 

“It’s okay, really.” Michael laughed, “My dad is a German and mom is Irish. We moved there because dad got a job offer and mom, _of course_ , she missed her home.” He smiled.

 

“Ah,” Mesut nodded as he poked his pie with the silver fork, “I noticed, actually, that though you’re fluent, your accent is a little…you know.” He gave a more genuine shy smile at that.

 

“You’re pretty observant, Mesut.” The actor smiled widely. “About that phone call, was that your _freundin_?”

 

“Uh, no. It was my mom.” He took a bite of his pie lazily; his eyes looked at nothing at particular.

 

“She’s mad because you’re skipping classes?”

 

“Huh?” Mesut blinked.

 

“Aren’t you supposed to study in _Uni_ or something?” Michael started to poke on his quiche too, but his attention was fully on his companion.

 

“Oh, _nein_. _Ich…arbeite_.” He chewed slowly, eyes were big and glassy, and Michael gulped. “And I don’t have a girlfriend.”

 

“You don’t?” those grayish eyes locked the dark brown orbs at that, gleaming in something the younger one had never seen before.

 

“I do have a fiancée though,” He took another piece of his pie, hiding a small smile from Michael, “Or _had_ , actually.”

 

It was a little adorable how suddenly the Irishman’s eyes lighted up, “ _Warum_?”

 

“I actually kind of _stole_ her from her previous husband and she’s almost 9 years older than me.” He shrugged indifferently, “Got her dyed her hair black, got her converted, and got her changed her name also. Now I broke the engagement.”

 

“You did _what_?”

 

“It’s not one-sided. She dumped a whole jug of orange juice to my head, okay?” Mesut chuckled, “She couldn’t cope with my lifestyle, she said. My work…it requires me to be mobile and she couldn’t handle serving my friends orange juice whenever we came home from…er, _work_ …to play some games and such.” Again, he shrugged.

 

Michael chuckled. What that hag was thinking? This guy here was still a child too, she should’ve known that. It was absolutely her loss. “But it was a bit too much, man. I mean she broke it off just because of _that_?”

 

Suddenly the boy looked somewhat sheepish, “Actually, she suspected that I cheated with a friend from-uh, work.” He nibbled on his fork.

 

The ginger haired man blinked then shook his head slowly, holding back laughter. “So, is this a female ‘friend’?”

 

“It’s a he and he’s also my housemate in, uh, Spain.”

 

“You work in Spain?” Michael looked at him, “Really? Stop being all-mysterious with your ways, what do you do?”

 

“If I tell you, I have to kill you.” Mesut spooned another piece of pie into his small mouth with a smile, eyes locked with Michael’s. This boy was such a tease. “What do you do?”

 

“I find no justice in telling you what you refused to tell.” He shrugged with a fake disappointed face that made the younger one laugh.

 

“So how should we settle this then, Michael?” he tilted his head, eyes were bright and his smile was somewhat vibrant.

 

Michael only smiled back.

 

*

 

Limbs tangled, clothes were a forgotten heap on the floor. Michael was already all over Mesut; on his lips, chin, neck, and chest. The younger man writhed while holding back a moan. It happened very fast, the actor couldn’t even remember when, but as that innocent-looking, soft-featured Turkish boy started to run the tip of his shoe up from his calf to his knee, he lost it. He just _lost it_. It was very convenient that there was a hotel nearby so they wouldn’t need to actually do something that would attract any attention of people passing by.

 

Though looked like one, Michael doubted that Mesut was a virgin. He was too quick at responding to the situation, too swift at bucking at the right touches, and not too clumsy at kissing. He was pretty impatient in getting the actor out of his pants also, eyes widened at the sight of Michael’s already rigid cock which doubled in his already impressive size. The bloke licked his own lips before the ginger watched as they stretched around his shaft as he slowly deepthroating him. He bucked more into the humid warmth, throwing his head back as he hit the back of the boy’s throat and he almost lose it as he tangled his fingers with the silky dark hair.

 

Mesut was _good_ with his mouth. He was careful and he knew the places to touch that would drive Michael mad. The older man jerked himself out of that sweet, sweet mouth before he would finish it right there.

 

“What’s with you and older people?” he chided.

 

Mesut only smiled as his cheek flushed worse than before, a hand was fisting his own cock as he adored the perfect look of his companion. “I guess…they get me really hot.” He slowly got up and got onto the bed on his back, shamelessly parted his legs by holding his own knees apart. He might be thinner and less built than the older man, but his body was sure made of tight muscles in the right places. Michael was impressed at how flexible he was and he was dripping already from the mere sight of the Turk’s clean, pinkish cleft. “I feel so hot, Michael… _bitte…_ ”

 

The actor didn’t wait for him to repeat the request.

 

*

 

Mesut went back to Madrid after three days. He suffered a light jetlag he hadn’t got accustomed to since he moved there. He just woke up in the afternoon to find his ever-so-caring housemate, Sami, was watching TV in the living room. He lazily dragged his feet to the sofa and sat down just to lean onto his friend, groaning at the headache he was sporting. Sami gently ruffled his hair with a smile.

 

“Good evening, princess.”

 

“Fuck you…” Mesut whined.

 

“In your dreams.”

 

“I want lunch.”

 

“I just heated the lasagna Sergio made yesterday, go get it.”

 

“No, you go get it. I have a headache and you don’t.” Mesut pouted.

 

Sami heaved a sigh and got up from his seat. The younger one picked up the remote control and started to flip through channels. These Spaniards, they were all too much into telenovelas and celebrity gossips. He had no idea what was so interesting about them. This channel, for example. It was like 24-hours celebrity gossip shows nonstop. Mesut was so, very thankful that he wasn’t one or even _planning_ to be one. What kind of life he would have living like that?

 

He was about to change the channel when a familiar face appeared. He was not too sure at first, but then he tensed up. There was no way he’d mistake those grayish green eyes and strong cheekbones. He bit his lower lip.

 

“Here is your food, your highness.” Sami returned with a plate of hot lasagna and two cans of coke.

 

“Sami, do you know who that guy is?” he pointed to the TV screen that was now showing a handsome man being interviewed about his latest movie. Sami looked at that and turned his gaze at Mesut, scowling.

 

“I told you to watch movies more and pay attention to your surroundings, didn’t I? Where have you been living all this time, a cave?”

 

“Sami!”

 

“It’s Michael Fassbender, for God’s sake! The younger version of that X-Men Magneto guy and the fake German guy in Inglorious Basterds, have you no idea at all?”

 

“I don’t know what an ‘X-Men’ is!” Mesut made a horrified look as he looked at Michael who was laughing on the TV. _In_ his _fucking_ TV. “Oh my god.”

 

“What?” Sami turned to him.

 

“Don’t freak out." He held his breath for a second before he added, "I might’ve slept with him.”

 

*

 

Tegel wasn’t so busy at night, Michael wondered why. The lounge he was in as he was waiting for his flight to London wasn’t as crowded. Not it usually was, but he spotted only three people in there. He was a little bored, he cursed himself for forgetting his laptop in London, so he decided to drink some horrible English Breakfast tea and read some newspaper. He was about to take The Gazette from the pile, but he noticed a photograph of someone he knew on a tabloid.

 

He took it and read the title; “ _Die Weltklasse-Fu_ _βballer Mesut_ _Özil brach die Verlobung mit Anna Maria_ ( _F_ _ür ihn ist nat_ _ürlich keine gro_ _βe Sache_!)”.

 

His jaw fell open.

 

The huge Bambi-like eyes, that sleek hair, those thin lips and, oh _Gott_ , that sharp and fine-shaped _nose_. There must not be many people named Mesut with that kind of nose around. Or coincidentally with those gleaming huge eyes. _Or_ with the _exactly_ same beauty marks on his right eyelid and on the left side of his neck. Such coincidence would be too much even if it truly was only someone who looked like this Mesut in the sports tabloid.

 

He blinked for a few times before he looked up at the flight schedule screen nearby and smirk formed on his lips. Maybe they still got a ticket to fly him to Madrid?


End file.
